Michael is presented to his father and his blindfold yanked down around his neck. He blinks into the sun, and I can’t do anything but stare at his face. Mr. Greyhill reaches for him, but at a word from Omoko he stops and slowly lowers his hand. Now his emotions are obvious. Even from here, Greyhill’s barely contained fury is palpable.
Mr. Omoko gestures to the table where a laptop has been set up, and the two men sit. Michael is moved away.
I look back over my shoulder, as if by magic there might be some help coming up the road. There are only trees.
I stand. This is it. No one is coming to help us. I pull the gun out of my waistband.
“Tina, what are you doing?” Boyboy tugs at my arm, but I shake him off.
The gun is heavy, but at least it’s a handgun, not one of the AKs, or otherwise I would have ditched it to run faster. I check the magazine—six bullets, plus one in the chamber. I fix my stance like Michael taught me to when we were kids, like the Goondas reinforced when we went out to shoot beer bottles off the edge of the sea wall. I aim at Omoko. He is smiling as Mr. G brings the laptop closer and starts to type. I breathe.
But I can’t get my hands to stop shaking.
“I’m too far,” I say, and use my shoulder to wipe the sweat that is trickling into my eyes.
“Tina . . .”
“I need to get closer.”
I move sideways through the forest, keeping my eyes locked on the two men at the table. They look so odd, like a business lunch misplaced. I can hear Boyboy following behind me and turn to signal him to move back. I want him farther away, where he won’t be heard. I run through the forest on quiet feet. Feet that have been trained to be silent sneaking into houses also do pretty well running through forests, it turns out.
The field is broad, and it takes me a while to get around behind them, especially while trying not to make any noise. I creep up the hill above the militia truck, then down through the undergrowth, moving as fast as I dare, until I come to a sort of a cliff, where I can crouch and look down at them. The men stand in a line, Goondas on one end, militias on the other. Mr. Greyhill is typing something on the computer, and Mr. Omoko is engrossed in what he’s being shown. I had expected to come up on more men in the forest guarding Mr. Omoko’s flank, but there’s no one, no sign of disturbed undergrowth. It’s a lucky break, but still, what am I supposed to do now? Shoot as many of the militia and Goondas as I can, plus Mr. Omoko? Hope they don’t kill Michael? I’m closer, but still outnumbered. Desperation swells in my throat.
I hear a snap of a twig behind me and spin, heart thumping, gun raised.
Boyboy already has his hands up, grimacing. I put a finger to my lips and motion for him to get down. He crawls forward and peers over the edge with me.
I can see it on Boyboy’s face. He sees what I see. At best it’s a shootout, which will most likely end with Michael getting the worst of it. And Boyboy doesn’t even have a gun. I try to keep my breath steady. Think, Tina, think, there’s got to be a way. Why can’t this be like the movies, where I just tear down through the woods, bad guys tossed back by bullets, the captive never getting a scratch?
If I can even hit Mr. Omoko I’ll be lucky. But no other plan is coming to me. I see Mr. Greyhill pause, his finger hovering over a key. Mr. Omoko smiles like a lion that’s just brought down prey. Soon the transaction will be over, and Mr. Greyhill and Michael will be in the helicopter. I ease myself onto my belly, swallow, prop up my elbows, and raise the gun. I squint one eye closed and try to block out Boyboy’s rapid breath, try to slow my racing heart, and keep my trembling hands from shaking the sights away from my target.
I put my father’s head in the crosshairs.
I can feel the resistance of the trigger under my finger. One tug is all it takes.
Shoot him, Tina. Now.
Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak-tak
Tak-tak-tak-tak
I start, and lift my head, so wound up that for a second I can’t loosen my grip on the gun. Boyboy and I look at each other, then at the men. They’re all talking, focused on something across the field in the direction of their camp.
“What’s going on?” Boyboy asks.
“I don’t know.”
Tak-tak-tak-tak
Tak-tak-tak-tak-BOOM
I hear birds screaming in the forest. The militiamen shout and point. I crane my neck to see and sniff the air. “Smoke,” I say. “It’s coming from back at their camp.”
The militia guys seem to have the same thought and turn to Mr. Omoko. An argument starts, but then Mr. Omoko yells for the Goondas to stay put while the militia guys go see what’s going on. Mr. Greyhill sits ramrod straight, eyes glued to his old Number Two. I don’t think he’s hit the key he was hesitating over. The Goondas finger their weapons and watch their boss. Michael looks at his father. Everyone is as tense as strung bows.
I look from Mr. Omoko back to the truck, where the militia men are clambering in. Did they leave their RPGs or take them? With a roar the truck is bouncing across the field, back toward the camp.
And before I can come to my senses, I swivel the gun, line up the sights, and take a shot.
I watch the Goonda holding Michael’s elbow jerk forward and fall onto the table between Mr. Omoko and Greyhill.